


holy water cannot help you

by dawnsforge



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Gen, Supernatural Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 07:52:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16828327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnsforge/pseuds/dawnsforge
Summary: It turns out being (technically) reanimated has some downsides.  (For Bad Things Happen Bingo; the prompt was "Definitely Just A Cold")





	holy water cannot help you

**Author's Note:**

> let's see how this badthingshappenbingo challenge goes! i think between my original characters and bungou stray dogs, i'm gonna try and go for a full blackout on it.
> 
> also, thanks to my amazing dnd party for being okay with always letting me borrow your kids to write. adoros would be nothing without the rest of our lovable gang of idiots.

_A place even the gods fear to tread_ , the villagers had whispered of the forest, and at the time, Adoros had assumed - they had all assumed, really - that it was a figure of speech, the same way people referred to places (or people) they didn’t understand as _godless_. Given how many gods there purportedly were, it stood to reason that some had to watch over any given place, even the most unfortunate and cursed.

But the moment their traveling party had stepped through the line of the trees, he’d begun to feel - wrong. As if, despite Val’s stoic presence ahead of him and Heather and Keekee’s chatter at his back, he’s suddenly very alone. A chill’s been persistently clinging to his spine, one that surely has to be from walking in the thick shadows of the twisted oak trees surrounding them as far as the eye can see - because what else could it be? There’s nothing to be afraid of.

There’s nothing at all.

He pauses, gazing up at the tiny gaps of cloudy sky peeking through the canopy of leaves above him; his hand rests, almost absentmindedly, on the scales-shaped mark over his heart.

_Are you there?_

There’s no reply, of course - the God of Death has more important things to do than directly answer a check-in from a single disciple, no matter how… close they may be. Usually, though, he’s filled with a feeling of connection - of another hand resting vaguely atop his, an assurance that the god he serves is always, in a way, with him.

And again - nothing. Not even the steady beat of a heart to ground him, though _that’s_ at least normal; still, even the familiar stillness of his blood feels foreign, eerie, at the moment.

He feels, more than hears, the voice, like cold fingers brushing the back of his neck. _Silly little God-touched man. You shouldn’t have come here._ He whirls around, craning his neck for the speaker, but besides his companions, there’s no one - not that he expects any different.

 _Can you feel it happening already?_ The voice continues, and this time, he can locate its source - it’s coming from every root underfoot, every branch arching over his head, even from the rocks scattered about on the ground, all exuding a _nothingness_ so strong he doesn’t know how it’s taken him this long to notice. There’s no darkness, no corruption winding its way around every tree - it’s just nothing. It’s just a _void_.

And now that he’s aware, no subconscious part of his mind trying to conceal it from him, he _can_ feel it. Just a slight stiffness in his limbs, for now, each movement draining a bit more of his energy than it should, but he knows this can only be just the beginning.

A body only kept alive by a god’s bidding can only function for so long in a place no gods are willing to reach, after all.

“Adoros?”

Keekee’s voice sounds like it’s coming from miles away, rather than the ten or so yards she’s stopped in front of him, turning to wave one long-fingered hand.

“Are you okay? Do we need to stop and take a break, or anything?”

Val comes to a stop as well, hands on her hips. “And waste hours of daylight? I know we can see in the dark, but I don’t want to be responsible for this one-” she jerks her head towards Heather- “tripping over a stray log and dying.”

“I’d know if a log was there,” the dryad corrects her, the leaves of her hair rustling as if in amusement.

“A rock, then. Come on, old man, if you hustle we can make it out of here by nightfall.”

Nightfall. Judging by how heavy his feet suddenly feel as he hurries to catch up with the rest of the group, he’s not sure he has that long.

“Seriously, you okay?” Val asks as he stumbles up alongside her. “You haven’t stopped to wax poetic about the beauty of leaves, or what-the-fuck ever, this entire time, which either means you’re sick, or worried about something.”

 _Try both._ But he’s not about to tell her, or anyone, right now of all times, what’s eating at him, both mentally and, he can feel, physically. _I really ought to be taking notes - how many chances does one get, really, to record the effects of rapid bodily decomposition in first-person?_ “Just a little under the weather, that’s all. Probably… coming down with a flu, or something.”

Val narrows her eyes, as if she doesn’t quite believe him, but shrugs one shoulder anyways. “Well, don’t cough on me, then.”

 _Oh, don’t worry, I’m entirely sure what I have isn’t contagious, unless you’ve been walking around the past two years hiding the fact that on a technical level you’re a corpse._ “I’ll try my hardest.”

He’ll have to thank her (never mind how uncomfortable Val gets when presented with gratitude) for not prying later. If his body holds up that long.

The moment she looks away, he presses his hand to his side - the perpetually healing wound there protests with a dull throb of pain. Before, he would barely have felt it, as though the area had been anesthetized. He’d be willing to bet that, in another half-hour or so, it’ll be re-opening, blood soaking through his traveler’s coat and dripping with each step he takes on the forest floor, despite the lack of a beating heart to pump it through his veins.

He wonders which will happen first: if his body will bleed out, or simply grind to a stop, drained of energy, like a broken-down automaton.

“ _Adoros_.”

He blinks, his eyes taking longer than they should to focus; the world seems to be on the wrong end of a telescope, Val appearing at a distance even though he can tell from her voice she’s right in front of him.

“Either tell me what the _fuck_ is wrong with you, or I swear on your damned god I’ll carry you out of here like a sack of potatoes.”

“I’m alright,” he tries to say, but his tongue feels just as heavy as the rest of him.

Val hoists her bag off her shoulder, depositing it in Keekee’s arms (to her credit, she only bends slightly under its weight) and cracking her knuckles. “Sack of potatoes it is, then.”

“Is this how you normally carry potatoes?” he hears Heather ask curiously as he’s lifted, one hand under the back of his knees, the other around his shoulders. It’s almost as if Val’s carrying him to the altar, or over the threshold of a new home, instead of toting his slowly-failing body until it - as he’s now entirely sure it will - inevitably gives out.

“Thanks,” he mutters, to the best of his ability, letting his eyes fall closed.

Val makes a noise of disgust in response. “You better not be this dramatic when you’ve _actually_ got just a cold.”

 _I told you, it_ is _just a cold_. But the words don’t make it out; he’s too exhausted even to move his mouth, or do any more than breathe.

 _Only a matter of time now,_ he hears the forest whisper in his head. _Better hope your friend is fast, priest._

He’d like to think Val will be, if only out of sheer stubbornness, but he’s too tired to argue; he lets his head fall back against her forearm, and prays to a god that can’t hear him that if she’s not, he’ll at least be welcomed to the afterlife with open arms this time.


End file.
